


Treehouse

by Zigrat



Category: Rammstein
Genre: Friendship/Love, M/M, POV First Person, recording LIFAD, treehouse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-22
Updated: 2018-04-22
Packaged: 2019-04-26 01:14:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14391084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zigrat/pseuds/Zigrat
Summary: Two old friends discover something unexpected while working on their new record. Also,treehouses.





	Treehouse

**Author's Note:**

> This is not what I was supposed to write. I was supposed to write porn. Well, I guess technically I delivered, but there's also introspection and complicated feelings and stuff. (I did not start it with the poetry. It's totally Mr. Lindemann's fault for referencing Brecht in his lyrics.)
> 
> Thanks to Z. who has been an inspiration and a menace! Have this strange mellow little thing.

I love the treehouse. I guess I love the other guys a little bit too, for giving in to this whimsy of mine and agreeing to record our new album here. I claim the treehouse as mine as soon as I set eyes on it, like something out of an impossible childhood dream. Nobody contests it. We all have our things.

It’s perfect. A long, winding climb up, a room just the right size to feel safe but not stifling, mattresses and pillows piled on the floor, and a wide open window to take in the view. Solitude and space, seclusion and freedom. Once again I stretch my legs out on the messy bed and play a few idle chords on my acoustic bass, breathing in the smell of living wood. Thoughts and ideas can come to me when they please. From up here, the sunsets are magnificent.

I’m disturbed by a sound from the stairs. Someone’s trying to come up quietly, but a creaking step gives them away. I sigh, too mellow to be really irritated. Someone’s probably coming to invite me to something social I’ll decline. I’m expecting Paul, maybe, but that’s not who it is.

I’m surprised to see Till looking in with a curious expression, almost apologetic. When not recording vocals, he’s been nearly as reticent as me, retreating to some corner to jot down ideas or to play the piano. Perhaps I take notice because it’s so close to my own inclinations. What’s the point of a retreat if you can’t find moments of peace?

“Olli, do you mind?” he asks, gesturing at my nest, and I can’t leave him waiting at the doorstep.

“Sure”, I say, because it’s what you’re supposed to say, and also because I’m intrigued. He must have some reason to come.

Till steps in, stooping a little as he enters. He’s got a couple of books and a notebook in one hand. I watch him settle into my space, sinking down on the mattress next to the window.

“I wanted to see what the view was like from up here”, he says. “And the others asked me to tell you that there’s beer and company waiting, unless you want to perch here like a bird all night.”

“Nah. I’ll pass”, I say. I’m not in the mood for company tonight. I don’t mind Till, though. It feels like he doesn’t take up as much space as he should in the cramped quarters.

“Me too”, he says. “Must be getting old. I’ve got some things to work on.” He holds up his notebook. “Some stubborn thoughts to catch.”

“Then I was born old”, I say, and Till smiles at me, the corners of his eyes crinkling. He likes making faces for show, but I prefer that tired little smile. “You can stay if you want to.”

“Good”, he says and leans against the wall, one leg stretched out and the other crossed on top of it. My bare toes almost reach his knee. He looks out the window, a far-off stare, and then picks up one of his books.

The evening passes in comfortable silence. Sometimes I think he’s looking at me, and I wonder if I’m bothering him with my playing. I almost laugh at the thought. Me bothering him, when really it should be the other way around!

It’s getting dim outside. I put on the row of tiny lights circling the ceiling. What are they called in English, fairy lights? It’s a bit dainty, I guess, but I like the way they bend the shadows. I look at Till, expecting commentary, but he’s nodded off at some point, still holding on to his notebook.

I’m curious about what he was reading. Something to inspire new lyrics? Carefully so as not to wake him, I pick up one of the books. It’s poetry, well-read, the corners of pages folded and smoothed again. I leaf through the book and let it fall open where it will, at an oft-read page.

 _Ich will mit dem gehen, den ich liebe._  
_Ich will nicht ausrechnen, was es kostet._  
_Ich will nicht nachdenken, ob es gut ist._  
_Ich will nicht wissen, ob er mich liebt._  
_Ich will mit ihm gehen, den ich liebe._ [1]

I swallow, open the book again. Same page. This is the poem he returns to. _I want to go with the one I love._ With _him._

It doesn’t need to mean anything, and anyway I have no right to pry. I reach out to put the book back in place. But Till has opened his eyes and is looking straight at me. His eyes are very green. I notice too many things today.

“I didn’t know you liked poetry”, he says and holds out his hand for the book.

“You can’t exactly avoid Brecht”, I say with a shrug. “Sorry. I should have left your stuff alone.”

“It’s all right”, he says. His thumb brushes across my pulse-point as he takes the book. An accidental touch, nothing off about it. “Look at that sunset.”

He’s not looking at me any more, and I feel like I’ve lost something. I turn my eyes to the window. Molten-gold light is spilling through. The sky puts on its best show, a slow fade from red to purple to night. Till stares at it intently, until we are left in the faint glow of the tiny lights.

He lets out a sigh. “I’d forgotten. How can you forget something like this?”

“It’s human, I guess”, I shrug. I wouldn’t know. My memory’s full of solitary moments like these – except now I’m not alone, and none of them are quite like this.

Till turns to me abruptly, and I almost look away. I’m acting strange. We are still the same, sitting on my bed, two friends sharing a solitary evening. But an intensity has been building without my notice.

“Did you like the poem?” he asks. The question holds more weight than it should.

“Yes,” I admit, my fingers drumming a quiet march on my thigh. “I thought it was beautiful.”

Till stares at me for a moment more, and then holds out his hand. I take it and roll over to him, straight into the warmth of his embrace. It’s odd to be held like this, his chin resting on the top of my head, a strong arm holding me close. I didn’t imagine this, if I ever imagined anything. I don’t even know if this is about me.

I turn in his arms and he lets me, the hold easy to shrug off if I want to. I have to see his face. Calm, hesitance, the kindlings of something I could choose to ignore. I’ll blame the haunting poem, the unique atmosphere of this place if I need an excuse later. In my own little world I can do anything. And so I place my hand on the back of his neck, brushing through the short hair there, and he leans forward to kiss me. It’s careful like a question.

I answer, pull him closer, press my lips to his. It turns into a real kiss, slow and languid. I’ve kissed him before – for laughs, for show, but this is new. We are in no hurry. This in itself is amazing. After a long while he breaks the kiss, though he’s still holding me close. I like the feel of his large hands on my back, radiating warmth.

“You think we should do this?” Till says. His breath teases my neck.

“I’ll let you know”, I say, feeling reckless, and kiss him again. He laughs against my lips. Then he kisses down my jaw and neck, leaving playful bites and clever lashes of his tongue in his wake.

“This?” he asks, and I press him wordlessly against me. He takes the hint and continues what he’s doing, making me shudder under his mouth. My hands twist in his shirt, and I run my fingers all over him, preserving the moment in tactile memory. Though I see him every day now, I haven’t learned the feel of him. Muscle and softness, places which make him shudder or huff out a breath.

He’s reached my collarbone, tugging the collar of my shirt lower. My hands have wandered under the hem of his shirt. I want him. Only now does it really hit me. I want to touch all of him, and I want him to touch all of me. I place my fingers under his chin to get him to face me.

“I think we should do this”, I tell him. “We should do anything we want.”

It seems to be something he needed to hear. He lets out a sigh and closes his eyes. When he opens them again, they’re full of mischief. Oh, I like that look.

“Then you should wear less clothes”, he says.

The position’s uncomfortable. One of my legs is going numb. I move to straddle him without thinking and bring our hips together. His breath hitches. I can feel how turned on he is despite the leisurely pace, or perhaps because of it. Before, there was always too little time, too many distractions. Here there are none as I ground against him, my obvious hard-on pressing against his.

 _I don’t care about the cost._ I always did, skipped on a score of wild things because I thought one step ahead. Yet here I am, my hands greedy on his naked skin, violent towards the innocent fabric of his shirt. I take off my own shirt, too, wanting to know where his lips were travelling. He just looks at me, eyes taking in everything, then settling on my face.

“Didn’t think you’d be up for this”, he says lightly. Is he giving me a way out? Thinks that I’m too straight-laced, that I’d run from something I started. I take his hand and make him palm my cock through my pants.

“That answer enough?”

That seems to work better than words. He buries his face in my neck again, his hands slipping under the waistband of my sweats. I groan at the return of his hot breath and chapped lips, buck at the touch of his hand. He doesn’t seem to mind my hands in his hair, or on any part of his body. It’s a shame I can’t see his face like this.

 _I don’t care if he loves me back._ There are many kinds of love. Did he think I wouldn’t want him? Does he still? I know the harsh lines of his face, the scars, the years. He might think I’d want some pretty thing instead. Someone new and unknowable. Sometimes I think I give away too little.

“I want to see your face”, I tell him, robbing us both of a chance to pretend we’re here with someone else.

He obeys me, and I think he’s happier. I kiss his crooked smile with more heat than before. The bed is not very wide, but we manage. I push him down on the unmade sheets. Clothing gets strewn about the floor. I lay on top of him, matching him limb for limb, delighted at how easily he takes my weight. I love the feel of his naked skin against mine. His leg between mine, his large hand on my cock – yes. The dreamlike slowness is pushed away by a haze of urgency.

Though we are both seeking release, the need to touch and learn never goes away. I come with his lips burning a brand on my neck. He comes with my mouth on his cock, his hands straining to be gentle on top of my head. I should tell him not to be so careful, next time.

We lay side by side, sharing idle touches, cooled by the wind stealing in through the open window. I’m a little lost now. I want to be alone, I don’t want him to go away. I need to think about this, memorize it in case it doesn’t happen again. I realize I wish it would. But when he makes a move to get up, I find myself reaching for his wrist.

“What?” Till says, tone neutral, no feeling betrayed. Only a slight rasp from the noises we made together.

“It’s dark outside. I don’t want you to break your neck on the stairs.”

“What, you think I’m an old man?” he says, but his expression softens despite the joke.

“I think you’ve disillusioned me about that.”

“I’m almost flattered.”

It’s getting too light, slipping back into the familiar territory of back and forth. I know the next line, and the one after that. They’re not what I want to say.

“Stay.” The words come easy to me, for once. “If you want to.”

The disbelief and slow pleasure on his face make something twinge inside of me. He turns back to me and doesn’t make another move to go until morning. I know I can’t sleep with someone beside me. He is like a furnace. It doesn’t bother me. I lay awake, and think, and remember, and forget to regret anything.

**Author's Note:**

> 1 I want to go with the one I love.  
> I do not want to calculate the cost.  
> I do not want to think about whether it's good.  
> I do not want to know whether he loves me.  
> I want to go with whom I love. [return]  
> – Bertolt Brecht
> 
> [Translation found here](http://www.alb-neckar-schwarzwald.de/poetas/brecht/)
> 
> Thanks for reading! Comments are lovely, as always.


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